


Such is the Measure of Man

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Abuse, Chan, M/M, details of physical torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His voice is honey and Severus is a bee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such is the Measure of Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hp-rarities.livejournal.com/profile)[**hp_rarities**](http://hp-rarities.livejournal.com/).

**.September, 1971. _Hogwarts._**

"Watch where you're going, _runt_ ," he spits. The Slytherin Prefect badge shines on his slim chest, dazzling in the dim candlelight wavering in the corridors. He is surrounded by friends, laughing and teasing and dreamily waltzing through life.

Severus Snape has never heard the name Malfoy before, but he thinks it holds a quiet dignity that he would like to possess. For the rest of his first year, he watches the way Malfoy sneers and laughs and snarls and walks. Emulation is the sincerest form of flattery. Severus wants to be him, but being just like him will have to do for now.

~*~

"You're all right at potions, I hear," he says.

Severus watches the way his thin lips press to form the words, feels something coil in his stomach that he cannot name or comprehend. It feels funny, like stumbling over his own feet in front of Lily Evans, tongue-tied under the Sorting Hat and Professor Slughorn's smart shadow.

"Could you brew some of this?" he asks, points with one long, bony finger to a potion that Severus has never heard of.

Severus is skeptical, but Lucius' pale hand squeezes his skinny shoulder, effuses warmth into Severus' spine until his toes tingle and cheeks grow warm.

"One vial should do it."

Severus knows there is something wrong, that he should not brew the potion, but he does it anyway, because Lucius is his goal, and if Lucius wishes it, then Severus will give it to him. He does not argue, does not smile, does not do anything except gather the necessary ingredients and begin.

It takes Severus three weeks, but he brews it, hands the vial to Lucius between classes. Lucius' eyes are wide and luminescent, as if he is transfixed under a spell. He turns his gaze to Severus. Severus feels ashamed underneath it, caught up in a snare too tight to wriggle out of.

"Let me introduce you to someone," he says, and he sneers proudly, his lips an aristocratic curl. "Severus…may I call you Severus?"

Severus thinks Lucius may call him Mudblood if he wants and he would still brew his potions and lick his boots to shine them, but he doesn't say so. He shrugs, lets Lucius lead him into the Potions classroom a week later, where he has evening tea with Professor Slughorn and Lucius' father, Mr. Abraxas Malfoy.

Mr. Malfoy is so tall that it gives Severus a crick in his neck just trying to meet his seeking, iced silver eyes. His hair is lighter than Lucius', longer and swept back in a tight, slicked-back ponytail and held by a coiled serpent clasp, made of what Severus can only assume is pure gold with fine inset stones.

With Lucius' insistent introduction and his pale hand at the small of Severus' back to nudge him forward, Severus feels strangely anxious, as if this moment is a defining point in his life, a path to which all other roads must lead. He worries the hem of his frayed, secondhand robes, and notices that Mr. Malfoy's eyes never leave the sight of him.

~*~

When Lucius leaves Hogwarts, it is a sad day for Severus. He has no other friends to speak of, isn't even sure Lucius Malfoy _is_ his friend at all, since they barely know one another—but Lucius is the closest thing Severus has in his House and doesn't want to lose him just because they are separated by so many years and so much blood and wealth.

On the train home, Severus sits in a compartment alone, his nose brushing the parchment of his book as he reads to escape the dull, void detachment he feels from the rest of the train.

Lily Evans visits, but two other girls pull her away. She wishes Snape a happy summer, says she'll see him soon. Severus has no reason to believe her, but the hope that swells in his chest breaks something inside. He reads to escape, to fight the emptiness away, to escape and escape and escape...

 

**July, 1972. _Spinner's End._**

"Brush your teeth," he says.

Severus tries very hard not to cry. He looks down at his worn and yellowed toothbrush; half the bristles are gone, and the rest are unfit to do anything close to clean his teeth. Severus looks back up at his father.

"Brush them," he repeats, his voice on the edge between the things Snape cannot speak of and the things he will never forget. "Or I will make you brush them."

Severus does not argue. He runs the tap, draws the brush beneath the lukewarm water, and squeezes a drop of decade-old paste onto the remaining bristles. It is hard to squeeze enough out, but Severus tries to get by with what he can. With his father breathing down the back of his neck, Severus does not want to make a mistake. Just one small error could ruin this moment.

"That's a lad, nice and slow," he says, nodding.

With the brush in his mouth, Severus can taste everywhere it's been—inside the toilet bowl, against the kitchen floor to scrub up spills and dirt and rat droppings, and through Muggle chemicals for the windows and mirrors. Severus closes his eyes, imagines that he is flying away somewhere far, far beyond the dull wallpapered walls of his small house and his poor family and his dismal father who drinks and drinks and screams and sometimes takes it out on the magical blood flowing between his mother and himself. Beyond the world he knows he is too young to understand, beyond his mother's frail body perched in the chair in the den with her pale face in her red hands, Severus finds solace. He is otherworldly bound.

That night, he is lucky. He escapes without a scratch or a shout.

~*~

There is an owl that pecks insistently at Severus Snape's window for two hours. It knows that Severus is in there, tries to get the letter to him, but stills its pecking when Mr. Snape throws open the window and attempts to shoo him away. It returns an hour later, when Mr. Snape has gone, and Severus opens the window gingerly for him.

"Hello," Severus says. Even the owl knows it is a rare sight to see this boy smiling. His sallow skin looks taut and tired, his black eyes sunken and dull. "What have you got for me?" Severus whispers, curls his finger under the owl's beak to stroke his feathers down under his neck.

With a warm coo, the bird nips Severus' fingers affectionately, flutters to the post of his small bed to await a response, and settles in to rest for a moment.

Severus rips the letter open with such gusto that he tears part of the card inside. The gasp he elicits is loud. He glances over his shoulder at the shut-tight door, listens for his father's footsteps marching down the hall with heavy thuds that signal danger, but tonight, there is only the silence of a broken home and empty hallways.

The letter is precise, simple, and signed in silvered ink that shines in the dim moonlight steaming in through Severus' window.

  
_Dear Severus,_   


  
_My father and I are hosting a small, casual get-together at Malfoy Manor this coming Saturday, and we would be grateful for your attendance._   


  
_I have arranged for a Portkey (in the form of an old newspaper) to be available to you at 8pm on July 25 at the hill on Ormskirk Rise. Arrive promptly and dress accordingly. Send your response with my owl before Friday to affirm._   


  
_Yours,  
L. Malfoy_   


Severus cannot hide the joy he feels. His fingers tremble on his quill as he draws it from his trunk with the utmost caution and silence. A single creak of the floorboards will give him away. The very last thing he needs at this moment is to have his father find out he is conversing with and planning to meet other wizards over the summer holiday.

Breathlessly, Severus scrawls a quick response in hastily-penned letters on the parchment and sends the bird off into the night. Heart pounding, Severus climbs into his bed, draws his quilt to his chin, and stares up at the worn, yellowed ceiling. His eyes flick over every bump and crevice and imperfection, imaging stepping into Malfoy Manor with the elite wizards and witches of his age.

Sleep comes late in the hours of the dawn and does not last long—Severus knows he will be on edge until Saturday.

~*~

The only robes that Severus owns are the secondhand Slytherin robes he bought for Hogwarts, but his grandfather on his mother's side had once owned some dress robes, and his mother draws them out of the crawl space behind the closet when Severus explains his dilemma. They are old and out of fashion, but they are the only option Severus has, and after a few clips of Muggle scissors across the excess fringe and lace, they are at the very least presentable.

"Be safe," his mother whispers, combing his hair for the third time that hour, pressing worried little kisses to his forehead and cheeks. "I'll keep your father occupied. Don't be in too late, and mind your noise when you do come in." Her fingers shake against Severus' shoulders as she brushes them down. "I love you."

"Thanks, mum," Severus whispers, his face burning under her affections. He wants to crawl out from under her and race to the Portkey.

Instead, he lets his mother wave him away, and he walks down the long row of houses on Spinner's End, clamors down the hill, and sets off to Ormskirk Rise with a slight spring in his step.

**July 25, 1972. _Malfoy Manor._**

Malfoy Manor is everything that Severus had imagined—and more. The grand staircase rising out of the foyer, the marble floors, rushing fountains, glorious white peacocks roaming the gardens, and the guests decked in their finest. Lucius had said it is informal, but Severus is glad he'd thought to find dress robes…even if he looks like something out of another century in his hand-me-downs.

"Severus, old friend," Lucius says, reaching for his hand after Severus is led towards the study. "Come in, come in. Here, have a drink."

Severus doesn't dare remind Lucius that he is only twelve years old and nowhere near the legal age to drink; instead, he accepts the goblet of strong-smelling alcohol with a nod and what he can only hope is the most casual smile he can attempt. It isn't hard to smile, as he is quite happy, but it is also somehow nearly impossible given the level of anxiety flooding his heart, lungs, and muscles. Stiffly, he sips the drink, blanching at the stark, bitter flavour.

Lucius does not invite him further into the room, merely stands at the threshold with him to chat about the most boring, banal topics of schoolwork, his summer, and inquiries about his health. Severus wonders if he should draw further into the room, attempt introductions to the other attendees.

Finally, he blurts, "Shall you introduce me around?"

The expression on Lucius' face sharpens and grows stale. The disinterested sneer on his lips makes Severus feel very alone suddenly, and he wishes he could take his words back, but what exactly has he said that is improper?

"Now you mention it," Lucius drawls, swirling the red liquid in his tumbler with listless movements. "It was my father who inquired after you and asked that I extend an invitation."

Severus feels the colour drain from his face, the anxiety pounding through every thunderous heartbeat against his ears. Lucius doesn't want him there, isn't planning to introduce him to the others—this invitation is probably about a potion, something illegal or suspicious that the Malfoy family cannot afford to be caught brewing themselves. They are using Severus! What other explanation is there, after all? Severus' fingers shake on his goblet, itching to pitch the drink in Lucius' face. Instead, Severus scoffs low under his breath and slips out of the room, walking down the hall in a rush as his throat closes up. How could he think anyone would treat him any different, especially someone like Lucius?

Suddenly, something stops Severus from moving. Lucius stands behind him, gripping the small angle of his bony elbow. With a simple, subtle twist, Lucius has Severus pressed up to the wall in the middle of the wide hallway. Severus' breath catches in his throat at just how close Lucius stands, and heat floods his face in shame at his feelings.

"Before you storm off in upset," Lucius says, sneering and craning his head to catch Snape's eyes. "Allow me to escort you to my father's study, where he will be expecting you."

"And if I don't want to see _him_?" Severus barks. "If I walk out and never come back?"

Lucius quirks a fine brow. "Then you are a coward, Severus. Please do not tell me that I misjudged your bravery as simple, childish hero worship?" Lucius' sneer softens, but something in his expression sharpens when Severus' eyes sweep over his face. "I do wish to remain…friends."

Again, Severus scoffs. But this time, he cannot bear to look away, to try and run. He wants to be friends, more than anything. A man like Lucius Malfoy could advance Severus to the heights of popularity and esteem in the wizarding world—even at twelve, Severus knows that much. And he wants all of the benefits that Lucius can help him reap.

"Fine," he murmurs.

"There's a good lad," Lucius purrs, grinning.

There is something so similar in Lucius' tone to Severus' father, something in the words and the delicate scorn hidden beneath the amnesty. Severus suddenly wants nothing more than to see Mr. Malfoy instead, to spend the evening with a man who does not play games and speaks his mind and does not hide behind tricks and nonsense.

"This way," Lucius adds, his grip on Severus' elbow tightening to lead him down the hall and up the grand staircase to the second level and down another two halls and into a study.

Lucius knocks three times. The door swings open as if on a mechanical hinge. Lucius waves him in but does not follow.

~*~

It turns out that Mr. Malfoy does want a potion. But that is not the only reason he advised his son to invite Severus over for a chat. Severus listens as Mr. Malfoy describes the things he needs, as if he has a particularly elite grocery list and Severus is his personal shopper.

"I require the brewing of Veritaserum," he says, and looks at Severus as if there might be some explanation necessary. "Do you know—"

"Truth serum," Severus whispers, his eyes sweeping over Mr. Malfoy cautiously. There is a fine line between right and wrong, between the things that Mr. Malfoy is saying and the things he obviously wants from Severus.

Mr. Malfoy's sneer is wide but thin-lipped. His eyes are silver as they catch on Severus'. "Smart boy."

The compliment is laced with a praise that Severus does not want. He bows his head, thinking of how he can answer. Of course he will not say no, but he cannot brew it at his home—his father would skin him and hang his carcass on a post for the neighbours to see for such an insult.

"I do not have a place to brew it, sir," Severus says, keeping his eyes on the floor. "Nor the ingredients…or the means by which…I mean, the necessary…" Severus stutters there, like his father's old car used to stutter before it puttered and halted in the middle of the cobbled, uneven road and never moved again.

"You cannot afford them," Mr. Malfoys says.

Severus' face burns under the scrutiny of his gaze, but he manages a stiff nod.

"I am willing to pay you—handsomely—for your services."

Breath caught, Severus' eyes snap up, focus on Mr. Malfoy's expensively-tailored dress robes, the shine of his boots in the glint off the candlelight, the ancient portraits donning his study that whisper of riches beyond Severus' wildest fantasies.

Greedily, Severus gives in to the desire and draws near. "How much?"

 

 

**August, 1972. _Spinner's End._**

It is the beginning of a strange and beautiful friendship when Severus leaves Malfoy Manor that first night back in July. He will never forget Mr. Malfoy's strong hand on the arch of his spine, Mr. Malfoy's nectarous promises in his ear, Mr. Malfoy's lingering gaze as Severus is led out of the Manor and to his Portkey.

Over the course of the next month and a half, Severus receives one letter every week from Mr. Malfoy, with enclosed instructions on proper brewing, a pardon from the Ministry for two hours of underage magic every evening at specified hours, directions to a Portkey, and the necessary ingredients for each level of the potion. It is slow work, made slower by the lengths of privacy and secrecy involved in sneaking out of Spinner's End before his father returns home from work. Severus is not sure what would be worse, to let down Mr. Malfoy or to incur his father's wrath.

Severus' mother understands, promises she will help. Together, they drug Severus' father twice every week with two drops of a powerful Sleeping Draught in his ale. When his father's hulking body slides bonelessly out of his chair mid-dinner, Severus feels a tingle of unbelievable power rush him like an uncorked flood. He kisses his mother goodbye and disappears into the night, to his Portkey, and to Mr. Malfoy's waiting advices.

 

**August, 1972. _London._**

Mr. Malfoy likes to watch him sometimes, when Severus is hard at work in the rundown building in midtown London. A stone's throw from the Ministry of Magic, Severus knows what he is doing is illegal, that if the Ministry found out, he would be punished severely. So he makes it his business not to get caught, to let Mr. Malfoy attend to him as he never would have imagined the man capable.

Severus works as often and for as long as he can, but it is somewhat distracting to be watched with hawk-like precision at his every tip of leech juice or chop of valerian roots. Sometimes, Severus messes up, and Mr. Malfoy scolds him, slaps his hand or shoves his face towards the ingredients coldly. There is something alluring about Mr. Malfoy in these moments, but there is also something frightening, and Severus is not sure which he feels more strongly.

When the potion is done, Mr. Malfoy threatens to try it on Severus. It is only when Mr. Malfoy's lips curl into a familiar sneer that Severus realises he is joking. Severus, too, smiles, though there is nothing funny about the situation he has found himself in.

Severus asks for payment; Mr. Malfoy pushes several greasy strands of dark hair behind his ears, makes Severus flinch away from the feelings the touch stirs within him. Mr. Malfoy says, without hint of amusement, "Only when I am done with you."

Severus is not surprised when, two days before he returns to Hogwarts, he receives a letter from Mr. Malfoy, asking for two more vials. Included are the necessary ingredients, which Severus stuffs into his trunk. A rush of longing overwhelms him. He will do this, and then he will be done, and Mr. Malfoy will pay him, and he will buy nicer robes and better books, and he will show them to Lily and his Slytherin housemates, and he will be better than all of them.

 

**December 25, 1972. _Hogwarts._**

Severus receives three gifts for Christmas. The first is a batch of misshapen cupcakes from his mother with tender red and green decorations on them. Severus smiles as he watches the magicked snowflakes dance across the icing. His mother is no cook, but Severus eats every last one and writes her back with his love. Even though she said he could not come for Christmas, Severus knows she is safe.

The second gift is from Lily. It is a brand new copy of Earnest M. Hanford's _Middle Eastern Witchcraft of the 12th Century_. A new surge of guilt swarms Severus, as he has no gift to return to her, and Lily had known he had been dying to read that, to have it for his own.

The third gift is from Mr. Malfoy. In shining, brilliant letters on the front of the package, it reads _Severus Snape_ like a promise. Severus brushes the other gifts aside for it, clutches the box in his arms and thinks of Mr. Malfoy's sneer and the sharp point of his teeth.

There are two things in the box. The first is a winter scarf made of fine silk and wool. The second is an invitation to the Manor for New Year's Eve and instructions on Flooing from Hogwarts under approved conditions. _Dress smart,_ the note says, _As I will introduce you to some very important witches and wizards._

It is Severus Snape's best Christmas.

 

**February, 1973. _Hogwarts._**

The New Year's gala at Malfoy Manor opened Severus' eyes to the possibilities of life. There, he met men whose names would become his future. In attendance, the crème de la crème, who would normally snub Snape, found themselves being introduced to him by Abraxas Malfoy himself.

Severus' cheeks had burned the entire night from the endless array of cool, saccharine compliments that slithered out of Mr. Malfoy's mouth on his behalf.

"Would you care to meet Mr. Snape, one of the finest young potion-makers in Europe?" Mr. Malfoy had asked.

"This is the lad whom we were discussing last week," Mr. Malfoy had said. "My brilliant young protégé, quite the accomplished wizard—and barely thirteen yet."

By the time the night was through, Severus had a list of potions to be made and so many contacts that he couldn't remember them all. The letters began to roll in the following weekend, asking for various arrays of potions, some of which Severus had never heard of.

By February, Severus has orders for fifteen different potions. He begins to cut corners to produce them quicker, stays after Slughorn's class to ask about various techniques. By the end of the month, Severus Snape has risen to the top of Slughorn's class. Privately, Slughorn offers to advance Severus to a higher level if his marks continue to improve.

Mr. Malfoy has still not paid him, but Severus is beginning to think that is not the point.

 

**May, 1973. _Hogwarts._**

Sirius Black has Severus' scarf in his brutish clutch. He waves it around like a flag, calls Severus a ponce and a dolt. Lily stands by to defend him, but her pity only sends Severus into a rage.

"Don't give me your pity!" he growls, voice on edge as he points his wand between Black's eyes.

"Now things are getting fun," Black says, sneering with his sharp, sharp teeth.

They cast their spells at the same time. Severus' scarf goes up in flames, but Black's nose pours with blood from a scar that slashes his nose nearly off his face, so Severus thinks they are even.

Lily walks away, and it takes everything Severus has not to run after her. There are more important matters beyond an unfixable ache in his heart.

 

**July, 1973. _London._**

The first time Severus hears the word _Mudblood_ is not the first time he truly learns what the word encompasses. Mr. Malfoy says it with severe reserve and finality—it is the absolute and last word on the matter. Severus falls in love with the way Mr. Malfoy talks about cleansing the wizarding population; his voice is honey and Severus is a bee.

Hovered over potions that of age wizards only dream of producing, Severus sneers down into the dark, bubbling liquids. He comes home smelling of licorice and dead things and the scent of Mr. Malfoy's sharp teeth and thin lips whispering things against the shell of his ear. Lying in his bedroom, Severus stares at the ceiling for hours at a time, awake until dawn with hands running over his body and gripping his skin.

He orgasms to the thought of his glory and the heights to which Mr. Malfoy can raise him.

 

**December 25, 1973. _Hogwarts._**

Severus is happy to be alone again. The castle is his own, his solace and his torment, his cage and his freedom. He ignores the letter from his mother in favour of tearing open the letter from Mr. Malfoy.

  
_Dear Severus,_   


  
_Happy Christmas. I hope the potion brewing is coming along. I have two more orders for you to fulfill and a new contact to introduce you to. Some other time, of course, when you are not so occupied in your tasks._   


  
_You will find that a Portkey (in the form of a sheet of red plastic) will be available to you at Hogsmeade Station on April 14 for the Easter Holiday. If you are free, I would be most appreciative._   


  
_Yours,  
A. Malfoy_   


Severus grins, his face lighting up. There is excitement coursing through his veins and adrenaline pumping through his blood. More than anything, yes, he wants to see Mr. Malfoy, to spend the holiday with him if that's what he wants. His fingers are blistered and sallow from potion work, but he will brew anything if it means his advancement and that Mr. Malfoy will continue to fancy him.

 

**April 14, 1974. _Malfoy Manor._**

Things are different. Severus notices immediately. First, there are no house elves to greet him, only a pale-looking Lucius, whose eyes are dull with long, heavy circles beneath them. For a moment, Severus wants to ask what the matter is, but Lucius shows him to Mr. Malfoy's study without delay.

Quietly, Lucius says, "It's all right," as he gestures Severus inside.

Severus watches the door close, Lucius Malfoy's pointed features sinking into darkness. When he turns around, it is clear it is not just Abraxas who fills the study room. There is a stranger. The man is tall and sickly pale, his face stretched and distorted. When Severus takes a tentative step forward, he notices how waxy the man's skin is, as if he could mould it like putty. In the flickering candlelight, the whites of his eyes are bloodshot and wretched. There is no mirth or kindness in that gaze, and Severus is instantly afraid.

"Sir?" he murmurs, his voice betraying the anxiety crawling through his bones.

"Good evening, Severus," Mr. Malfoy says, reaching out a hand to wave Severus closer. At Severus' hesitation, Mr. Malfoy chuckles. "This, my dear, talented boy, is Lord Voldemort."

That horrible gaze settles on Severus. Voldemort cocks his head, sharp teeth bared when he sneers.

"This?" Voldemort hisses. His voice is a snake, hiding in tall grass. It makes Severus flinch. "This is your protégé, Abraxas? _This_?" He gestures to Severus with long fingers that look like white spiders with claws at the ends of their legs. He says _this_ like a curse word; Severus' face burns.

"Yes," Mr. Malfoy answers, bowing his head. "He is the boy who brewed the last batch of Veritaserum."

Voldemort appraises Severus like a prized bitch, rounds him and sweeps his red-rimmed eyes over every inch until Severus has his lips set in a fowl, bitter line across his face. He hates Mr. Malfoy in this moment, for putting him through this, for letting him get wrapped up, making him care what Voldemort thinks of him. The papers say so much about this man, sometimes don't even refer to him by his name in fear of what the name means. And now Severus is standing in front of him and being sold like a piece of meat, for…for what exactly?

"Tell me, boy," Voldemort whispers. He is standing so close behind Severus that his voice rustles the greasy hair hanging down to Snape's shoulder when he speaks. "Do you wish to be greater than what you are?"

It is not a difficult question— _Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!_ —and yet Severus does not quite know how to answer. His eyes burn a hole into the floor as he nods.

"Close your eyes."

Severus does.

"Relax your mind."

Severus does.

"Breathe in…and out."

Severus does. He feels cold fingers at his scalp, at the fine points of his temples, and he bristles, but Voldemort's touch steels his reserve. For a time, they stand that way, in a silence that stretches intensely through Severus' body—blood, bones and all. He wavers. Something sizzles in his chest, further down, in his stomach, further down, in his groin and there and there and there.

"Open your eyes."

Severus does. He sees himself, a grown man with tall and broad shoulders, a handsome head of hair in a fashionable style, fine robes adorning his strong body. Mr. Malfoy is at his side, then presses his lips to Severus' mouth, slides his hands over Severus' body. Severus is being applauded, adorned, and Lily Evans is rushing at him, and his father is somewhere far, far, far away and he is a Pureblood and his mother is rich and happy and her face is full of warmth and love and Severus knows joy and happiness and—

The image fades. Without Voldemort's touch to his temples, Severus slumps to his knees. There are tears in his eyes. He does not know if what he saw is the future or an illusion, but he is desperate. His fingers grip at skinny thighs that he wishes were different.

"He is perfect," Voldemort says. "Keep him close, Abraxas. Do not let me down."

Voldemort is gone a moment later, but Severus still cannot move. His limbs are made of lead, heavy and hard—they do not yield to his mind's insistence that he move, that he run, that he disappear back to Spinner's End where everything is confusing but at least it is constant.

Mr. Malfoy's large hand is warm on his shoulder when it presses there and begins to massage. "You, my dear Severus, have just met the most powerful wizard in the world, and he chose you. Be grateful. You can thank me later."

Severus is awed and frightened and begins to sob.

 

**December 24, 1974. _Hogwarts._**

Professor Slughorn tells Severus that he has a guest. Severus knows who it is before the door swings fully open. He can tell by the click of the expensive boots on the old castle floors that it is Mr. Malfoy.

"Please, leave us, Horace," Mr. Malfoy says in his kindest, most charming voice.

Slughorn looks to Severus, who nods. "Of course," Slughorn hums. "Be just outside if you need me."

Alone with Mr. Malfoy, Severus is not sure what to say or if he should speak at all. Luckily, Mr. Malfoy breaks the silence first.

"I brought you your Christmas present," Mr. Malfoy says. He holds out a small box of silver and green.

"Thank you, sir," Severus says. He knows it is just potions ingredients, but when he opens it, his face begins to burn. It is not potions ingredients this year. It is not anything he has ever seen before. His gaze rises, tentatively, to settle upon Mr. Malfoy's pale, angular face. "Sir?"

"Open it."

Severus pries the book from the box. Setting the package aside, he peels open the book to a random page. He knows his face must be red, but the images inside the book are hardly an appropriate Christmas gift, especially for a boy his age from a man like Mr. Malfoy. The book includes torture and defensive spells from the Medieval to Modern periods, showcasing in clear detail every method to the wandwork and incantation. In many of the pictures, real victims appear to be used. Every model is nude. Severus hesitates on the first man he comes across, the bloke's broad chest slashed and slashed and slashed, his genitals glistening with come.

"Do you like it, Severus?"

His mouth is dry. Between his legs, his dick hardens; he wants to shove it in his fist over and over and over again. He cannot speak.

"Voldemort was pleased with your last potion," Mr. Malfoy says.

"Don't speak his name," Severus snaps, breathing heavily. He cannot tear his eyes from the photograph, which moves and moves and moves in an endless, erotic loop. "Not here."

"Why not? Are you afraid of him?"

Severus growls, finally dares to look up. He closes the book with a loud _snap_. "No."

"You needn't be. He has taken a liking to you. And your reaction to my gift is most pleasing." Mr. Malfoy places a hand on Severus' shoulder. "At your age, I was also interested in such subjects. Tell me, do you find it arousing? To watch the blood ooze from his wounds? To see that man's prick hard and aching in his torment?"

"No," Severus whispers, but his voice is far away, and he is melting.

"Turn to page sixty-three."

Severus shudders, does as he is told, and instantly regrets obeying orders. On page sixty-three, there are two men. One is stretched until his limbs are ready to tear off; the other is the one tearing them. Both men are aroused, the one in torment spurting come over his stomach before his arms pull out of the sockets.

In reaction to the images, Severus whimpers. Why does he like such things? Why does the sight of blood arouse him? Why does he long for Mr. Malfoy to rip at his skin and tear into his veins and hurt him? There is something wrong with him, something bad and wrong and evil, deep within his gut and clawing to get out.

"Do you like it, Severus?"

Mr. Malfoy's hand is traveling up the curve of Severus' throat, into the thin strands of his hair. Severus' eyes close, and he moans.

"Tell me that you like it."

"I love it," Severus whispers, his voice hot as fire, cold as ice, hoarse and void of inhibition.

Mr. Malfoy leaves ten minutes later, just after he has wrapped Severus Snape around his finger so many times that there is no telling where one man ends and the other begins. The moment Severus is alone, he drops to his knees, holds his prick, and comes.

 

**July 9, 1975. _London._**

They are called Death Eaters. Severus likes the sound of that, immediately wants to be one of them in their dark robes and long hoods, their eyes a mass of black and endless voids for mouths. The shadows are their home, the listless evenings in the summer dusk.

Severus is ushered amongst them, a part of the chants and awe. Voldemort draws him aside— _him_!, Severus Snape and no one else—and asks for his confidence. Severus is to brew him six new potions by the end of summer. For the first time in his life, Severus knows he can exceed his own expectations. Voldemort promises everything that Severus wants, gives everything he needs.

Heads turn, he is welcomed like a brother and a friend. Mr. Malfoy's sleek hands brush his spine like wind across silk. Severus ripples beneath his touch.

 

**January 5, 1975. _Malfoy Manor._**

The first time Mr. Malfoy touches him, he commands Severus to call him _Abraxas_. Severus calls out his name in a panic, impassioned scream. Filled inside and out, beyond the realms of possibility, there is nothing but Abraxas and Severus and the infinite futures in which they are one.

"Next year," Abraxas tells him an hour after Severus has been penetrated for the first time, "You will become one of us."

"A Death Eater," Severus whispers, his lips contorted to an eager snarl.

"A Death Eater," Abraxas agrees. "With limitless potential."

A bright future, with limitless potential. Severus could weep, but instead, he grins. His fists clench and the power of the moment rushes through him like a wave breaking on the naked shore.


End file.
